


The Bill Was $35

by palomino333



Category: Original Work
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Bars and Pubs, Beer, Gen, Inspired by Novel, Inspired by Real Events, Isolation, Pain, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Scars, Veterans, Waiters & Waitresses, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-24 11:35:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4918006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palomino333/pseuds/palomino333
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>War is the sculptor, and the soldier is the marble. Expect imperfections.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bill Was $35

Wayne let out a sigh of exasperation as he lowered his glass, the base keening as it hit against the side of the table. The left hand was the instrument of the devil, or so he’d been told. If so, why was his right so weak in comparison? The offensive hand lay over top of the left side of his face, forming a flesh mask to cover the jagged lines that sliced from his chin along his cheek. His pale skin, marred by the bright pink slashes, was pulled tightly over his high cheekbones, his dark eyes sunken in. His left eye was partly shut from the scar slicing into his brow, splitting apart the fine, platinum blonde hairs, and separating it into two lines that appeared to hover just one over the other. A lock of his straight hair hung over his brow, the dryness of its strands causing it to resemble straw. 

The clacking heels of the waitress drew close to Wayne, causing him to let out a low groan. “Is there something I can get for you?” She chirped dutifully.

He shook his head, slumping further down on the table, the lopsided V-shape that marked the bottom of her vest vanishing into the clouded liquid. “No, Marcie, thank you.”

“You haven’t touched your sandwich.” The crusts had been pulled off to lie next to it, but it was otherwise undisturbed. Chewing was painful these days, not that she would care. It stung and ached viciously to nibble upon a sandwich, but it could not even compare to the white hot pain of the bullet that had shot through the side of his mouth. He winced at the memory of it.

“I’ll pay for it,” he muttered defensively, “And I drank half the beer.” His head jerked back slightly toward the upturned collar of his trench coat, as if he were a turtle. His dog tags clinked slightly, the coldness of the metal pressing against his skin.

Marcie drew in a quick breath, and tilted her head to the side, her arms folded. Wayne glared up at her as he retracted further within himself.

She braced both of her hands on the edge of the table, and leaned forward. “Sir, you have sat here for no less than an hour slumped over like that, and hiding your face.” The plastic smile she had painted upon her countenance was gone. 

Wayne switched his gaze back to his beer, the white foam having long since drawn flat. The dark liquid sat static, resembling more petrol than ethanol. “I’m giving you business, aren’t I?” He growled in response.

“Sir, it’s suspicious behavior, and it’s distracting to our customers,” she indicated the counter by jerking her thumb over her shoulder, where a prematurely balding young man and a young woman, who held a lit cigarette in one hand, watched them with a slight apprehension. The table creaked slightly as Marcie edged her weight further onto it, her one outstretched hand just a few inches from the beer. 

His right hand shot back off the table, the cuff buttons scraping on the surface. Marcie retracted her own hand as if from the mouth of a crocodile. Loose change jingled as he fumbled around the inside of his pocket for the rectangular shape of his wallet.  
He tugged out a weathered fifty. “Keep the change.”

Marcie’s eyes widened. “But it’s only—”

“It’s to make up for your personally losing me as a customer.”

Marcie stood transfixed in place, dumbfounded as the bar’s front door swung shut behind the strange man, who was still grasping at the one side of his face for some reason as he passed before the front window.

**Author's Note:**

> I thought I would post an older document from my file bin to make up for there not being a prompt this week. 
> 
> This original piece of fiction was one that I wrote for my creative writing class, an elective I took during my junior year of college. The tale itself was actually inspired by a story my grandmother told me. Due to being in high school during the World War II era, she knew quite a few young men personally who went off to war. One of the young men who returned had taken a bullet through his jaw. My grandmother told me that he was very, very self-conscious about it, and would often hold up his fedora to block that part of his face when he wasn't wearing it on his head. 
> 
> This was also inspired by "A Perfect Day for Bananafish" by J.D. Salinger, which was one of the required texts for the creative writing course.


End file.
